


Diamond in the Rough

by Pas_Cal



Series: Memoirs of Maria [5]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Developing Friendships, Emetophobia, F/M, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Other, Post-World War II, Soviet Union
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 16:26:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5212730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pas_Cal/pseuds/Pas_Cal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ivan can’t remember what she looked like the day they first met anymore. All he sees is Maria in utter shambles. Malnourished and unwell in every possible way.<br/>When he thinks about it, his chest aches, and the only thing he can think to do his hold her tighter and hope beyond anything that she understands how sincere he is being in that moment. She used to be an angel, he thinks, but now she’s just as wretched and ruined as the rest of them. He’d hoped that maybe, just maybe, she would be spared. That the world would look upon her and decide she was the one who would live a happy life out of their kind.<br/>He starts to think maybe it’s that line of thought that jinxed it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Diamond in the Rough

**Author's Note:**

> Please be advised that there is some mention of the concentration camp Auschwitz and some alluding to Maria having been experimented on. It's meant to be implied it's Dr Mengele's doing, but for the sake of keeping the fic from delving into really nitty gritty dark stuff, I left out details of the matter.
> 
> This was quite literally written overnight, via text message, as an onslaught of headcanons but it turned into something a bit more involved so have at ye. The first Fanfiction I've actually written and posted since Bittersweet.

The first time he sees her, he’s woken up after battle to see her hovering over him. He can’t speak. His throat has been cut open, but it’s since healed enough to allow him to breath, albeit raggedly, and he feels nauseous from all the blood he’s swallowed.

She’s hovering over him, a girl who doesn’t look to be more than maybe eleven years old, smeared in blood that’s not her own and pressing a warm cloth to his throat. “Relax,” She says softly when he starts to struggle, placing a tiny hand against his chest. “I’m like you.”

Another nation, she means. They have a knack for sensing one another, and it’s only at her touch that he believes her. That he relaxes and lets her set to work on wrapping his wounds.

Her smile is so soft and sweet and it makes his heart ache because she’s so _innocent_. She’s covered in gore and with stitching kit on hand to sew gaping wounds shut, but she’s the most beautiful thing in that field. Untarnished. Not like him.

He’s already several centuries old by then. Ivan’s already felt the sting of a whip on his back. Felt the pierce of a blade through his heart. Beaten. Starved. Left for dead in the bitter cold. He looks no more than a teenager but he’s seen it all.

Maria, though, has been sheltered, and though she’s seen plenty of death tending to the wounded after battle, she’s never experienced pain like he or the others. She’s been protected, and he wonders how long it will be before the world rips her to pieces like it has him.

It’s not the last time he’s awoken to find her tending to his wounds after battle. But every time, she always smiles so sweetly, even with blood spattered on her cheek and her hands pressed to a gushing wound. “It’s alright.” She soothes. “I’ll have you fixed up in no time. Just relax.”

He finds it difficult to do so, but Maria has a magic touch. It eases his shaking, helps him regain a steady breath.

Ivan doesn’t understand why she bothers assisting him. Doesn’t understand why she even follows the knights to the battlefield. But her answer, when he finally asks, is so honest and pure it puts a lump in his throat.

“There’s no reason to let people suffer like this.” She’s fixed up a sling for his broken arm, wiping her hands on her skirt as she sits back. “They won’t let me fight, but I know how to heal. I give what comfort I can to those left behind.”

“Even your enemy…?” He murmurs, voice thick and slurred from exhaustion and a nasty welt on his cheek. She’s bandaged that up too.

“They’re not my enemy. Neither are you.” She shrugs. “I don’t condone this sort of thing. It’s silly and people die needlessly. So I help how I can. It gets me out of polishing the church silvers anyway.” And she gives such a silly little grin.

“You are such a child…” It slips past his lips before he can stop it. He wants to take it back, because that’s not how he feels at all. She’s not an annoyance, she’s simply unaware. Oblivious. She doesn’t know the hardships of being a nation yet. She doesn’t know death on a personal level. Doesn’t know losing family, like he’d lost his mother. One of the few nations to have one they remembered or met.

Her reply is unexpected.

“I suppose I am, but we all start off this way, don’t we?” And when he looks at her once more, she’s still smiling, expression soft. Like an angel.

 

It’s always on the battlefield that they meet. But as the borders shifted and warfare changed, so did the circumstances of their meeting.

 

He remembers seeing her actually in the fight, brandishing a sword and charging into battle, eyes alight like flames. There’s no smile in place, just determination. Ivan had spotted her, darting through the fray. Hard to miss with her white hair sagging around her shoulders, having fallen loose from its ribbon. He watches as she cuts down men one by one.

But never once does she inflict a mortal wound. Her sword never pierces a heart or lung. Each stab is expertly executed to simply bring the men down without causing a fatality.

It’s a foolish endeavor, he thinks, but it’s so utterly like her and he makes him… Angry? Amused? He’s not sure what to call it, but it makes his heart give an awful tug. He feels pity, briefly, because he knows that the older she gets, the worse the world will become for her.

 

He prays she never has to endure the pain he has. That she never has to feel hunger and agony. That she succeeds in her endeavors where he failed.

 

The first time they speak outside of the battlefield, it’s a very awkward exchange. He’s no longer being patched up by her. He’s standing in uniform a few paces away, violet gaze scrutinizing the dignitaries guffawing over dinner. Maria is eyeing him, smiling so charmingly it’s as if the men before them aren’t discussing vile plans of war and expansion. As if they’ve been fighting with sticks and rocks, not sharpened blades and cannon fire.

“You’ve gotten taller.” She says, and Ivan finally forces himself to look away from the gaggle of old men to the younger woman standing beside him. Her smile always makes his heart ache. Always makes him utter a silent prayer to please, _please_ let the smile stay. Don’t let the wretches of the world take it from her.

“You have simply never seen me standing upright before.” He replies, folding his hands behind his back, posture rather rigid.

She lets out a tinkling little laugh, shoulders hunching and hand coming up to stifle the sound. He finds himself wishing she hadn’t. “That’s fair. I suppose I should have said you’ve gotten bigger. You’re not as scrawny anymore.”

He’s hit puberty, he nearly says, but he finds it grossly inappropriate and something in the glint of Maria’s eyes tells him that she would absolutely tease him for it. Instead he remains quiet, unsure of what else to say.

“The uniform looks nice on you.” Maria adds.

When he turns to look back at her, eyebrows furrowed confusedly, he finds she’s already begun to saunter off, hiking up her dress skirts in a most unladylike manner.

 

It’s when he hears news of Frederick the Great’s death that he knows she’s finally feeling the sting of a cruel world for the first time. It’s a great loss, not just to her, but to the world. He was one of the leaders of the so called Era of Enlightenment. Maria had never lost anyone she’d become so utterly emotionally invested into.

He’d heard stories of how she’d been midwife to the Queen, how she’d brought all the Wilhelm siblings into the world. And rumor had it she’d had Frederick’s hand clutched in hers when he’d passed. The man had been like true family to her. She’d raised him. Fought beside him during wartime. Cared for him in his old age.

But now the man is dead and gone and Ivan knows he should do something, but he draws a blank. What could possibly be appropriate? He knows nothing of her.

In the end, he sends a simple bouquet of flowers with just a note attached saying who they were from. No words of condolence. No uplifting words.

 

But she’s already crumbling. He sees her during meetings between the nations. Sees how her smile doesn’t quite shine as brightly as it used to. Sees her closing up to the world around her.

 

Napoleon sweeps across Europe, sending Prussia reeling.

The Holy Roman Empire collapses. Her little brother is dead and one of her best friends was to blame.

 

Ivan watches from a distance as the world sinks its claws into her. As she builds up a wall between her and the others. Watches as she turns away from everything she’d believed in and held dear.

 

She wages a war across Europe, collecting the pieces of the dead Holy Roman Empire and working to rebuild her nation. Hears stories of how she’s become ruthless on the field of battle. How she no longer bothers to make pinpoint attacks that leave her enemy downed, but not dead. He hears of tales of the white demon of the Prussian army.

It’s not right. It makes his stomach churn and every time he hears more about it, he closes his eyes and _prays_. Not her. Anyone but her. She was no _demon_ , she was anything _but_. The first time he’d seen her, bright eyes glimmering, he’d thought of her as an _angel_.

 

But after all is said and done and the war finally ceases, it’s not her that’s in charge anymore. Maria has stepped down and a new face has made an appearance.

 

“His name is Ludwig.” She announces at the summit, those involved in the war having gathered, and others attending as witnesses. The boy she motions to barely stands as tall as she does, and she’s a measly five foot nothing. “And he represents the new German Empire.”

The phrasing puts a sour taste in his mouth. It doesn’t sit right with him. But he can’t place why.

 

It’s a long while before they have a chance to meet again. An entire war passes. A revolution that leaves his nation in ruin, the royal family slaughtered, and the world on the brink of a great depression. The empire Maria worked so hard to rebuild is in shambles once more, but he doesn’t hear any news about Maria or Ludwig. He’s too engrossed in his own affairs to be bothered with searching for it.

 

It’s the last year of World War II when news spreads amongst the allies of Maria’s disappearance. She’s accused of fleeing. Going in to hiding. But Ivan doesn’t believe it. Maria had walked out on to the field of battle to help the very people her army had fought to eradicate. She’d gone _into_ battle, cutting down men twice her size and she’d even had the decency to let them live. He never saw terror on her face.

Ivan refuses to believe that Maria would simply abandon ship simply because the tide of battle has gone against her favor.

He rather wishes he was wrong, because that can only mean something has _happened_ to her.

 

The camp is liquidated in January, but she’s left behind, unable to so much as stand, let alone go on a march that’s well over 50 kilometers, by foot. The Russians come to liberate them.

 

Ivan is leading them.

 

She wakes up to a set of tired, violet eyes staring down at her, brows knitted together. He hardly recognizes her at first, but the scar on her cheek and the bicolored eyes that blink up at him listlessly are what give her away.

She can’t speak. Her mouth is dry and her throat burns. Everything aches.

“Do not worry…” His voice is soft as he crouches down next to her, sliding his thick winter coat off his shoulders. He hopes the curl of his lips is assuring, but it’s impossible to tell what her expression holds other than absolute agony. “It is me.”

She recognizes him, and a choked sob breaks from her cracked lips. She doesn’t have the tears to cry, however.

 

That familiar ache is there in his chest once more. Maria has become so withered. So frail. She doesn’t smile and even if she tries, her eyes are simply so lifeless. Empty.

He misses the shine in them. Misses her laugh. It’s not right for her to be like this, he thinks.

She used to be an angel, but now she’s just as wretched and ruined as the rest of them. He’d hoped that maybe, just _maybe_ , she would be spared. That the world would look upon her and decide she was the one who would live a happy life out of their kind.

He starts to think maybe it’s that line of thought that jinxed it.

Maria has, undoubtedly, received the worst the world has to offer.

 

He sees the scars. Sees the way she flinches away from the touch of others, especially men. Sees the terror in her eyes when one of the dogs they keep to sniff out mines starts barking.

He makes the mistake of giving her a full meal the first night, and Maria makes the mistake of hungrily eating every last bite. Her body isn’t equipped to handle all the nutrients at once. She’s too malnourished. Too used to a diet of watered down coffee, stale bread, and beet soup. She spends the next three days sick and miserable and at one point her body actually gives out on her and she’s pronounced dead. She recovers, of course, just as they always do, but the way she reacts when she comes to makes his heart break.

She weeps. He watches as she dissolves into a fit of hysteria, asking God why he won’t just let her die already. Why she can’t simply stay dead.

“Hush…” He tries to soothe, wrapping a thick blanket over her frail shoulders as she heaves out shuddering sobs. She tries to move away, but he holds her shoulders to keep her in place. “I understand.”

He means it. He truly does understand. It’s why he wears his scarf, why his hands are always gloved. To hide his scars. To forget about the life he’s wrung out with his bare fingers. To forget the blood he’s stained them with. The lives he’s ruined.

His body is riddled with scars. From puncture wounds inflicted by his own boss. From bullets and blades and burns.

“I’m like you…” He says. He knows torture. He knows being used.

And it makes him want to cry to see such a sweet woman turned into this. Nothing but a skeleton. A ghost of what she used to be.

There’s little time to keep giving her the comfort she needs, however. He cannot disregard his mission. The war is still on. They must move forward.

 

She orders him not to tell the others. Not even her brother. Ivan promises, but he knows it won’t do much. All they have to do is look at her and they know.

They know where she’s been. Know she’s been starved and beaten like all the rest, but beyond that, everything is speculation. Ivan never says a word about the autopsy scars littering her body. Never alludes to knowing of the number branded into her left arm.

Even during her trial, standing accused of going AWOL and letting her country run Europe into the ground, he doesn’t bring up the evidence. And she thanks him for it after the meeting ends and she’s been condemned to death.

“It would have saved you.” He says. “Them knowing.”

Yet she shakes her head and smiles softly up at him. It doesn’t reach her eyes.

“I’m just tired, Ivan.” It’s the first she’s used his name. Ivan wonders why she chooses to use it now. They’re hardly considered friends at this point. His name was among the others signing away her immortality.

Perhaps it’s because of that very reasons. Because she’s no longer a nation. Those titles don’t mean anything to her anymore.

He hears murmurings of her becoming sick afterward, but nobody knows for sure what transpires to her after she returns home with her brother. They shut their doors and hide away. Ashamed.

 

Ivan pulls some strings. Speaks with the other nations. He never betrays Maria’s trust, but he does what he can to get her reinstated as East Germany.

 

And she hates him for it.

 

The day she finds out, she breaks a lot of things in her apartment. She goes on such a rampage that she ends up collapsing from exhaustion, still weak and sick and utterly unwell. And then the day arrives that he comes to collect her, and her gaze is full of daggers.

“Russia.”

The name is like venom on her lips. She glares at him accusingly. Murderously. He’s never seen her so angry and he can’t understand what it is he’s done wrong.

 

Living in a mansion with so many others, Ivan feels more than a little overwhelmed. It’s difficult to find a quiet place of solace, but his office is absolutely one of them. It’s his sanctuary where he can bury himself in work and self-loathing and drink in peace, trying to forget about the mess his nation has become. Trying to ignore the hateful looks he receives from the other nations. Even Maria, who he’d thought he’d been on decent terms with has turned against him.

She remains angry with him. Spiteful. And on one of his lesser days, not entirely sober, he gets angry and he snaps at her.

“You’re alive because of _me_.” He says, slamming his fist against the table. The room goes dead quiet and Maria stares at him with wide eyes. He hates that he can see the terror on her face. Hates knowing it’s him putting it there. “You would be dead if it were not for me. Disappeared like the rest of the old nations.”

She stands abruptly, chair scrapping against the wood flooring, and then she smacks him. Her hand is small, but it stings against his cheek and his chest gives such a nauseating tug that he’s half convinced his heart is about to leap from his chest.

“I never asked to be saved!” She spits at him. When he rises to his feet, stretching up to his full height and towering over her, Maria immediately cowers back, dropping her gaze and reflexively moving to cover her face.

He doesn’t strike her, but he does send her to her room without dinner.

Elik is the one to hold her as she cries that evening from the ghosts of hunger pains while Andrei raids the kitchen to collect her something to eat. Ivan pretends not to notice. He knows he’s reacted badly.

 

It is ages before they speak again. Maria goes out of her way to avoid him, but they share a house, and Maria is one of the few nations there that hasn’t acquired a job outside of nation work. She takes up the position of maid, essentially, keeping the house clean and presentable and presenting food and drink to any guests that may visit.

On one such occasion, Ivan catches one of his bosses trying to make a pass at her, hand brushing against the curve of her backside when she goes to pour him more tea.

She flinches, goes rigid as the tea pot slips from her hands and shatters, sending hot amber liquid all over him.

The man yells at her. Lashes out and strikes her cheek with the back of his hand, sending her stumbling back on the floor. He calls her such awful names and nearly raises a foot to kick at her before Ivan intervenes.

The man leaves with a broken nose and a twisted arm, but threatens that the others will hear about this. That Ivan will be reprimanded "for that clumsy bitch’s actions." Ivan slams the door in his face before anything more comes out of that man’s mouth, and returns to the dining room where he finds Maria collapsed on the floor.

Her thin fingers are tangled into her hair, pulling at them harshly as she shakes and cries, begging forgiveness. Begging for mercy.

All he offers is a gentle hand on her shoulder, but she scrambles away the moment he makes contact.

“You’re done for the day, Little East.” His voice is soft, soothing.

It’s after that, that he takes time to watch her. It’s after that, that he begins to notice just how deep her scars run. They’re not just on the surface anymore.

The first time they had a meal with fried meat, Maria nearly vomited at the table. Any time someone lit up a cigarette, Ivan would watch as she hurriedly left the room, pinching her nose shut. When one of the other nations fell ill and a house call had to be made, the moment Maria laid eyes on the doctor she nearly fainted. She’d gone so deathly pale, hands trembling and chest heaving…

But what struck Ivan the most were the days he would find her sitting in the parlor, curled up in the chair closest to the massive window overlooking the grounds. But she’s not really admiring the view. Her eyes and glazed over, out of focus. She’s in her own world and she won’t even respond to her name or being touched.

Elik is always there, it seems, clutching at her hand, murmuring softly, encouraging her to wake up, to come back to him. She rarely does, and Ivan can’t help but feel a bit happy that she doesn’t. Not for Elik anyway. He’s not sure why he feels that way. Why he’s happy Maria doesn’t “wake up” for Elik. She doesn’t “wake up” for anybody. Whatever world she’s created in that head of hers is much safer and happier than the one she lives in.

 

But then there’s a night he hears his bedroom door open and slam shut. He jolts awake, reaching for the pistol he keeps in his bedside table, only to freeze when he hears a broken sob and a whimper. His violet gaze settles on the door, still trying to adjust to the darkness.

“Maria?” Comes a hissed whisper from the other side of the door. “Jesus Christ, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to- Get out of there before he wakes up!”

He recognizes the voice. Hungary.

When Ivan slides out of bed, shuffling closer to the figure crouched in front of the door, he finds Maria looking disheveled and _shaken_. He sees the beginnings of love bites on her neck, still blossoming into view. She’s dragging in ragged sobs, struggling to breath and the way her hands keep pulling and scratching at her nightgown and skin, Ivan can only imagine how disgusted with herself she is.

“I didn’t mean to say her name…” Comes Elik’s voice from the other side, and he sounds genuinely distraught. “Please, Maria. Please, open the door. Let’s talk about this…”

When Maria finally notices Ivan standing in front of her, she freezes, staring up at him with wide, bloodshot eyes. He motions wordless for her to stand, and she moves to the one place she knows is safe.

The door opens, but Maria is hidden from view behind Ivan, clutching at his night shirt. Elik goes pale at the sight of him. Ivan can’t begin to describe the rage he feels bubbling up from the pit of his stomach.

“I- Russia, I-…“ The terror is evident, etched into every fiber of Elik’s being. He doesn’t get a chance to explain himself. Doesn’t get a chance to apologize.

Instead Elik gets a nasty broken nose and a threat that, should he ever go near Maria again, Ivan will personally emasculate him with the rustiest knife he can find in that wretched mansion.

 

When Elik is gone, scampered off with his tail between his legs, Ivan shuts the door and turns around to look to Maria. She has her head bowed, her entire body shivering and only after a second glance does he realize she has her hand pressed firmly against her mouth, looking as if she’s about to puke.

Sleep is difficult to achieve that night. He finds himself nursing a grief stricken Maria who won’t so much as say a word about what happened. She never tells him how far it went. He doesn’t entirely want to know, anyway. Just the thought of it in and of itself makes _him_ feel nauseous. Makes his chest ache uncomfortably. Makes him angry.

“You don’t deserve this…” He finds himself saying, ground out through clenched teeth as he rubs soothing circles against her back. She’s hunched over the toilet, hair pulled back with one hand and the other bracing her weight against the seat.

He starts to understand why she was so angry at him for keeping her alive…

 

She stops eating for a while after that, and it makes him worry. At dinner, she simply stares at her food, doesn’t even put forth the effort to push at it with her fork. She refuses to look at anything.

Elik can’t bring himself to admit how he got the broken nose.

Ivan finds her in the parlor some days later, curled up in her chair, staring out the window. She has that phased out look on her face again, lost in her mental sanctuary.

“East…” His voice is soft when he speaks. Ivan steps closer, a plate in his hand with a slice of pot pie and a fork. She doesn’t respond, so he sets the plate on the table beside her, and kneels down in front of her so he can see her face a little better.

“Maria…?”

She blinks, vision coming into focus, and then she turns to look at him.

He’s never used her name before. It feels like a taboo to have done so, but he’s too enthralled with the fact that she actually responded to care.

He orders her to eat. He’s seen how she handles hunger pains and she doesn’t need to cause herself any more harm than the world itself has done her. He makes sure she swallows every bite, and only when the plate is clean and Maria is full is he satisfied to leave. She utters a thank you, but not another word is spoken between them.

 

When he hears rumors of a wall being built in Berlin, Ivan knows Maria is not going to handle it well.

And she doesn’t.

The night it goes up, she’s restless and pacing. She can’t sleep and her chest aches and she goes into hysterical fits of crying all through the night. And then the news comes in that Berlin has been split. That a wall has been erected between the East and West.

 

He knows she blames him. He knows she must think of him as no better than Elik, a traitor. But he tries his damndest to defend himself because the last thing he wants to do is be the one to inflict more pain upon her.

“You could have stopped it!” She screeches. “You knew about it! You knew the whole time and-“

“I had no part in it, East, I assure you! This was out of my hands, I-…”

“That’s _bullshit_!

She screams and hits at him until her throat is sore and energy spent. He lets her. He deserves every punch she throws at him. When her energy is spent, however, she slumps against him, breaking down into sobs and struggling to stay standing. Ivan does the only thing he can think to do, and winds his arms around her to help hold her up.

“I’m sorry…”

Ivan can’t remember what she looked like the day they first met anymore. All he sees is Maria in utter shambles. Malnourished and unwell in every possible way.

When he thinks about it, his chest aches, and the only thing he can think to do his hold her tighter and hope beyond anything that she understands how sincere he is being in that moment. She doesn’t try to writhe away. She clutches at him and cries, still mouthing accusations at him in a language he never bothered to learn.

 

She seems to shut herself out from everyone after that. For the longest time she doesn’t say a word, she simply goes through the motions of day to day living in the mansion.

There is an evening, however, when he finds her in the library, curled up with a book in her hands and a fire lit in the hearth. He walks in as silently as one can with a frame like his, and scrutinizes the cover.

She’s reading not just banned literature, but banned _German_ literature.

“They could have you sent to prison for reading such a thing.” He remarks. Maria twitches, stiffening, her gaze flickering up to his. When she sees it’s him, she starts to relax, if only a little.

Her answer is unexpected.

“Yes,” She starts. “But you won’t let them.”

Ivan blinks in surprise, staring down at her. She wasn’t wrong. But even so, “What makes you think that?” He asks.

She flips the page, the sound of rustling paper filling the small silence nicely. “You said so before. You’re like me.”

 

It was a long time ago that Ivan learned to play piano. It’s not a hobby he kept up with, but it’s one that never really leaves after playing for as long as he did.

In the parlor is an upright piano pressed against the wall. It’s made of mahogany and the ivory keys glisten, kept impeccably clean. The instrument, despite its lack of use, has been kept perfectly in tune of the years. Ivan has seen to it personally.

Maria asks him one evening why he has it. “Nobody plays it.” She explains.

“It was a gift,” Is Ivan’s simple reply, but Maria seems unhappy with the answer given.

“They gave you an instrument you can’t play…?”

Ivan shakes his head. “No. I can play. I may not be an expert, but I know how.”

He watches as she looks from him to the piano, expression pinched up in thought. She never learned much piano. Didn’t have the hands for it. The keys were always too far apart for her. But Ivan? Ivan has big hands and can reach the keys easily, no matter what the measure.

“Could…” She starts, shifting uncomfortably, almost like she’s nervous. “Could I make a request…?”

Ivan straights up a bit in his seat, frowning. “I can’t guarantee I will know it.” He admits, but he hasn’t said no, so Maria asks anyway.

“Träumerei, by Schumann.” A German piece of course, but it’s one of the few he knows, remarkably.

 

The keys shift beneath his fingers like silk, but the pedal creaks beneath the weight of his foot every time he presses down. The notes, regardless, are soft and melodious, filling the room with their easy tones.

He messes up more than once, but even so, Maria encourages him to continue. His ears burn from embarrassment because of it, but he continues to play. Running his fingers over the keys is oddly comforting, and the notes that glide from the instrument ease his tension.

What he finds the most rewarding, however, is when Maria takes a seat next to him and watches, her crystalline gaze glued to his hands as they flutter over the keys. She’s quiet for a while, occasionally letting her eyes slip closed as she listens to the music. Eventually, he feels the weight of her leaning against his shoulder, just as he nears the last few measures of the song.

The notes plink out, echoing against the walls until everything comes to a standstill. It’s several long moments before Maria speaks, shattering the silence.

“Thank you…” She whispers.

He doesn’t say anything about the tears pricking at her eyes. Maria is more than grateful.

 

When the Soviet Union comes crashing down around him, Ivan feels like he’s losing himself. It’s like the revolution that overthrew the royal family all over again, except it’s on a much more massive scale.

His country—his republic—is falling apart piece by piece. One by one the nations leave. Slowly, the mansion becomes more and more empty.

But Maria stays. He doesn’t know why. He can’t fathom why she of all people would stay. East Germany hasn’t officially left the union yet, but it’s well on its way, and she wouldn’t have been the first to leave before he nations borders opened.

He spends most of his days locked up in his office, refusing to speak to anyone or show his face, and not one person dares to disturb him.

Except, of course, for Maria.

Sweet Maria who brings a glass of water and crackers. Lovely Maria who attempts to nurse him back into a happier self as best she can. It’s not the Maria he remembers first seeing bandaging his wounds as a child, but she’s come a long way since then. Her cheeks are fuller. Her frame has more weight on it and there’s color to her skin. Many of her scars still remain, but a vast majority of them have faded by now. It means she’s starting to move on.

When she sets the glass of water and crackers in front of him, he gives her an exasperated look.

“Why are you here?” He sounds more bitter and angry than intended, but he feels stretched thin. Feels like he’s going to shatter to pieces at any moment.

“Because I know what you’re going through.” She pulls up a chair and takes a seat, motioning for him to drink. “I’m the only one that does.” Her gaze meets him and he finally seems to understand.

His nation is being dissolved. The USSR won’t exist after long and…well, he’ll be back to being just Russia.

But the process, regardless, is still agonizing. Every day is a struggle. And it’s a struggle she knows all too well.

“And besides,” He pauses in taking a swig when she continues. “I owe you.”

He starts to protest, but she holds up a hand to stop him.

“It’s bigger than that. It’s more than just you getting me reinstated as a nation.” She says. “You were there for me more times than I realized… You did more for me than anyone else ever has.”

He’s not sure he believes her, but something in her words strikes him. Him? Helping her more than anyone else? Surely that can’t be true. Even before things all went to hell, she was always surrounded by friends. Always smiling. But then again, where were they when she started crashing? Elik, a man Ivan gathered Maria had at one point loved, had dropped her for Anneliese. Francis himself had been the cause of the final blow to Holy Rome. And when the Great War rolled around, everyone had turned their backs on Germany…

“Did you know…when Fritz died, yours was the only bouquet I kept?” She folds her hands in her lap, leaning back in her seat. “Everyone else tried to cheer me up with words that didn’t mean anything.” She shrugs her shoulders. “Every time I read their cards I would just…I’d get so mad I’d chuck them out the window. You’re just had your name. That was all I needed…”

“And you kept your promise about Auschwitz.” She adds. “And when Elik…” She trails off, cringing slightly, but then moves on. “Ivan, I wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for you.”

Ivan blinks, brows furrowing. “I thought you hated me for that…?” He says slowly.

Maria nods, hands wringing in her lap nervously. “I…I did. But, then I didn’t think I’d ever see Ludwig again. I didn’t have anything to go for. My nation wasn’t my own.” She straightens in her seat, willing her hands to fall still. “So…thank you. For everything. And that’s- That’s why I’m here. I want to repay the favor.”

Ivan doesn’t know what to say. Well, he has several things he wants to say, but he’s sure they’d all make her upset. The last thing he would do was ask her to stay. She didn’t deserve that.

“East—“

“Maria.” She corrects.

Ivan licks his dry lips, shifting a bit with an uncertain look on his face. “Maria…” It’s the second time he’s said it. “If you truly wish to repay me, then go home. Go back to Germany.”

She looks a little distressed at his answer, but he continues.

“Go home and be happy. You deserve that much after everything…”

“Only if you promise to write me.” She counters.

“It will have to be in French. I don’t know German, and I know you never bothered to learn to read Russian.”

She smiles at that. It’s a crooked smile, almost a smirk, but God is it ever so genuine and her eyes shine a little brighter than normal. He feels his heart give a leap, fluttering uncertainly beneath his ribcage. “I’ve been caught.” She laughs, but she agrees holding out her hand for him to take. “Do we have a deal?”

It’s so tiny compared to his. He has thick, calloused fingers while hers are tiny, deft little things. He’s too afraid to squeeze for fear of breaking it.

She’s coming to life again.

He can see the spark starting to glimmer again, can watch her blossom back into fruition. It’s reassuring to know she’s finally starting to recover and it gives him hope.

 

He watches over the next few months and years as she bounces back with her freedom. Watches as she smiles brighter, stands straighter, commands a bit more of the presence she used to have. And of course, he writes her, just as he promised. She writes back, too, and Ivan always finds himself enjoying each next letter more and more over the last. Each on more and more lively and happy. Each one showing more and more of the Maria he remembers.

He sees her at the meetings, trailing beside her brother, ruffling through documents and speaking with dignitaries as if she hasn’t been out of the game for decades. She doesn’t flinch away from touch anymore. Doesn’t fall to pieces over a silly mistake.

And she always calls him Ivan.

 

It’s the first time she calls him Vanya that he realizes what it is he feels for her.

“What did you call me…?”

Maria jumps, eyes wide. “Was that bad?!” She squeaks, nearly spilling her coffee in her lap. “I—I just saw it in a book! It’s a nickname, isn’t it? For Ivan? I mean—or is it too personal for you? I can think of something else…!”

She’s so flustered about it, it’s silly, and Ivan can’t help but laugh as she stresses over what she’s done.

“Yes, it is a nickname.” He assures her. “I just…I haven’t been called such in quite a while, is all.”

Maria eyes him for a moment, scrutinizing his reaction. “So…It’s alright if I call you that?” She asks uncertainly, and Ivan nods.

“But only if I have one for you.” He counters.

Her cheeks flush with color and with that grin of hers he feels his heart beating a mile a minute. Her eyes sparkle as she smiles at him and leans forward to give him the name she has picked out.

“Jules.” She says.

“Jules.” Ivan repeats, the name sounding foreign and heavy on his tongue. Intimate. “It suits you.”

Because now that the world seems to be moving in a more sane direction, she has time to heal. She _has_ healed, and now her eyes sparkle like gemstones and her cheeks flush the color of rubies, framed by pearl colored curls.

Maria gives a laugh that’s music to his ears, which sets his soul at ease.

As long as Maria is happy, Ivan realizes, all is right with the world. Because somewhere over the centuries he’s found himself falling for her. So long as she smiles that angelic smile of hers, nothing much else matters.

**Author's Note:**

> The encounter with Elik is meant to have been consensual up until the point he says the wrong name like a dingus.


End file.
